


Possession

by buttmunchery



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttmunchery/pseuds/buttmunchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five clothes swap prompts, because they are my weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

> Something VERY self indulgent because clothes swap is my #1 weakness and wow. otp

.:. One .:.

He flicks another dying lighter, not so gently coaxing the flame to light his next smoke.

“Are you going to leave?”

It sounds more like a command than anything, but he isn’t very elegant with words. He’s standing next in the doorway from bedroom to bathroom in nothing but some boxers he found on the floor, puffing a thick cloud of smoke from his mouth.

“It’s cold,” Yamamoto whines in protest from the bed, grinning coyly. He’s already sprawled comfortably on his side, wrapped in the comforter with pillows propping him under his arm. “Don’t make me walk home in this weather.”

They both know he’s going to get his way, since he’s burrowing further into the covers. Gokudera tosses the lighter onto the floor with a huff, hitting a pair of his sneakers and an empty cigarette carton.

He rummages through the second drawer of his dresser, the only drawer opened all the way (they’re all open), and slings a t-shirt over his shoulder along with a clean pair of boxers.

Coming to the bedside table, he leaves his cigarette butt in the ashtray, while his comfortable companion wraps tanned arms around his hips. Yamamoto presses his face gently to Gokudera’s stomach, kissing him there. “Thanks.”

“Just shut up.” He hisses as he breaks away, leaving the room for a shower. He is someone is very particular about his body being clean even though his room looks like the wreckage of a hurricane and he hasn’t washed his sheets in two months.

Yamamoto is content where he is but still gets up nevertheless to replace his own boxers that were thrown across the room before it gets too cold. He searches for his shirt, in vain—there are too many clothes on the floor; so he opts to rifle through the dresser to find a shirt that’ll fit.

He earnestly laughs, finally holding one up in front of himself. “Haven’t seen this in a while!” It’s his own shirt, it’s been missing for months, most likely due to the fact that he ends up leaving most mornings without attempting to look for his own clothes. It smells like cigarettes and faintly of laundry soap, but mostly it smells like Gokudera and so he slips it on and burrows back into bed. He imagines Gokudera wearing it, how it’s too long and too wide and too big at the collar, and he can’t hold back his own smile.

When Gokudera returns, Yamamoto has his eyes closed, so he turns off the lights and crawls onto the other side of the mattress. Yamamoto sleepily wraps his arms around Gokudera’s shoulders, mumbling something against his clean, wet hair.

“If you want me to hear you, you have to talk louder, bastard.” Gokudera breathes in annoyance, not fighting the embrace.

“You’re cold, Hayato,” Yamamoto says lazily, but loud enough to be heard. “Get closer.”

Gokudera hisses as he complies, pressing his flushed face against the warm skin of Yamamoto’s neck. One arm slings over his ribs while the other is pressed between them, and their bodies fit together perfectly.

.:. Two .:.

His phone keeps vibrating against the wood of the bedside table, but he’s good at ignoring it. Someone’s called three times, so it might be urgent, but he doesn’t care right now. He’s flat on his back on the bed, left foot flat and right calf across left knee, reading. Looking anywhere but text with his reading glasses annoys him severely, and so he’s let the calls go to voice mail thus far.

But whoever is calling knows the way to get him to answer. After the fifth round of ringing, he dog ears the page in frustration, slamming his book and his glasses onto the mattress. He rolls onto his stomach, snatching the phone up.

Sure enough, it’s Yamamoto.

“What!” Gokudera yells in exasperation as he tears open the phone.

There’s a lot of noise on the other line; sounds like the idiot is outside somewhere. He can hear Yamamoto laughing, “Gokudera, finally!! I have a game tonight and my jersey is at your house! Can you bring it?”

“It’s your own goddamn fault you left it, so why should I bring it?” Gokudera snaps.

“Pleeeeeease! I’ll treat you to sushi at my place afterwards!” Yamamoto’s pleading smile and clasped hands can practically be heard over the line.

While Gokudera would have to sit through the game for food, it’s true that he’d end up going out on his own anyway, and this way he wouldn’t have to pay.

“Fine,” he finally snarls, and slaps the phone shut just as Yamamoto cheers happily.

It takes him a while to find the cream colored jersey among the clothes scattered across the carpet. It’s wrinkled beyond repair and still sports dirt and grass stains from the last home game, but it’ll have to do.

The warm, humid air of the afternoon envelops him as he leaves his apartment complex for the school. When he arrives, it’s already dark and the stadium lights are on, and the field is packed with people. He shoves his way through the crowd, breaking free at the border where the dirt diamond begins.

Yamamoto jogs up to him, grinning. The bastard is already wearing a jersey, and looking only slightly apologetic. “Sorry Gokudera! They let me borrow a spare!”

Gokudera has a mind to shove lit bombs into every one of the idiot’s orifices, but instead he growls, “Then why didn’t you call me, fucker?!”

“My phone’s in the locker room!” His stupid, careless grin spreads wide across his face.

Gokudera’s nostrils are flared in anger, and he shakes his head, lighting a cigarette. As if that would really help. “Hey, I have an idea,” Yamamoto offers, dipping his head down.

Gokudera raises his eyebrows, his expression still obviously pissed but hinting at intrigue. The baseball player leans closer to his ear, saying quietly, “Why don’t you wear my jersey? It’s what all the baseball players’ girlfriends do.”

His smug smirk is enough to send Gokudera stomping off, shouting, “As if I would do something so fucking idiotic!”

And yet, Yamamoto spies him mid-game in the bleachers, looking completely relaxed and uninterested, the wrinkled jersey put on over his own shirt. The sleeves are almost long enough to reach the pushed up long sleeves of his own shirt, and it skirts across his lap mid-thigh. The collar hangs low on his chest, enough to expose the shirt underneath.

Gokudera never meets his gaze, completely petulant.

After they win the game and nearly everyone has cleared the stadium, they kiss behind the bleachers, Yamamoto’s hands in the back pockets of Gokudera’s jeans. Both sport the black lined jersey with Namimori on the breast, but Gokudera with Yamamoto’s name sprawled across the shoulders.

.:. Three .:.

After reuniting with Bianchi for the first time in years, Gokudera bolts from the Sawada residence. Not that he doesn’t care for Tsuna immensely, but his stomach is clenched in agony and he can feel the nausea rising in his throat. Anything he can do to alleviate the pain, the better.

He runs into Yamamoto’s dad on his way home, who remarks with the same annoying optimism that Gokudera looks underfed and a bit green. He also insists that “Takeshi’s friend” should come back and have something to eat for free, and since Gokudera is in no shape to refuse or even protest at the prospect of being Yamamoto’s friend, he complies.

“Nice shirt, Gokudera!” Blindingly cheerful laughter ensues as they enter the shop.

Gokudera’s wearing that awful button up with the leaves on it, frighteningly hideous yet cool and breathing in the stifling summer heat. It’s buttoned uneven and at the bottom the left side stretches longer than the right. No one yet has had the nerve to tell him that though, without risking getting smashed upside the head with the watermelon he carried on the way to Tsuna’s.

“Shut up, asshole.” He grumbles without conviction, sitting at the bar.

Yamamoto switches places with his dad at the counter, sitting in the stool next to Gokudera. Yamamoto’s dad makes him an eel roll and he eats it, thankful it’s anything but his sister’s poisonous handiwork.

After a while they go back to Yamamoto’s room, and he’s just finished smoking a cigarette when Yamamoto leans in from where he’s sitting on the floor and begins unbuttoning his shirt, eyebrows furrowed in determination to get him out of his clothes.

Gokudera slaps his hands away, growling, “It’s too hot. Don’t touch me.”

Yamamoto smirks a little, pressing his tanned hands against Gokudera’s thighs. “Let’s cool off then.”

***

Nearly a year later Yamamoto is in the process of rearranging his room when he finds the leaf print shirt, hidden between the wall and his bed along with a few other shirts. He stares at it for a long while before the memory he’s searching for hits him: the cold shower that hot summer day. An awkward yet satisfying memory, he decides.

He laughs out loud before depositing it into the laundry bin with the other clothes he found.

That weekend he wears it to the summer festival downtown, where he meets Gokudera that morning to help set up the canopy of their stall. It’s too short for him and he opts to wear it without an undershirt as Gokudera had, the skin of his tan stomach peeking out over a pair of cargo shorts. It’s almost too tight across the chest, and the buttons strain, but it looks good on him.

Gokudera’s squinting in suspicion, trying to recall where he’s seen the shirt, and Yamamoto only grins smugly without saying a word. The recognition finally hits Gokudera like a freight train, mortification crossing his features.

“You fucking—” Gokudera snarls, grabbing him by the collar, “ASSHOLE!!”

Yamamoto only laughs happily.

.:. Four .:.

“It’s…the square root of three. Right?”

“Why are you even here if you’re not trying to learn at all?” Gokudera is past yelling at this point, he’s just exhausted.

Yamamoto doesn’t even force laughter. He silently shrugs, leafing through some papers before deciding that it’s enough. It’s one of those rare moments when he’s visibly frustrated, the corner of his mouth upturned slightly where he’s biting the inside his cheek, his eyes low and dark.

“Sorry for wasting your time then,” He huffs, starting to collect his work into his bag. What he’d really rather say is,  _It’s not like I like getting assigned remedial homework_  or  _I’m actually busier than you are_ , but he holds it in. He has to keep his cool or he knows it will end badly.

Gokudera is silent. He doesn’t know how to deal with Yamamoto when he’s angry. He has too much pride to apologize for pissing him off, or to even think that something he’s done has been wrong. They don’t even meet eyes as Yamamoto leaves with a low, “See you tomorrow,” slamming the door behind him.

It’s mid September and the windows are open. The weather has been fluctuating, but lately, like tonight, the night air is warm and heavy. There is a breeze though, so instead of running the air conditioner Gokudera is content with the little breeze he gets, as long as the room isn’t stuffy.

But the room feels stuffy now, with Gokudera and his guilt and his cigarettes. He’s smoked three since Yamamoto left and he hasn’t moved an inch. It’s probably not fair that Yamamoto feels like he can’t say what he feels in front of Gokudera, but having heart to hearts isn’t exactly his strong suit. He sighs audibly, moving to get up when he sees it.

Yamamoto left his remedial homework there. He snatches it up. They only completed a few problems together and Gokudera knows he’ll get in trouble if he doesn’t turn it in completely finished.

After begrudgingly finishing the homework, he gets up from the floor and turns off his light. He falls right into bed. It’s nearly 1 and he’s dead tired. Fighting to find comfort on his pillows, he brushes something and is met with a familiar scent. A mixture of deodorant, incense, and dirt, and something unique to Yamamoto only, like the way the sun smells is trapped in the polyester fibers of the jacket. He sighs, pulling it closer, breathing deeply.

The next morning the temperature has dropped considerably and the bedroom is frigid. He doesn’t want to move from under the blankets, he doesn’t want to wake up at all. But his alarm is screaming across the room (purposefully put there to get him out of bed) and it needs to be shut off. He gets dressed with fists clenched and shoulders tight, a cigarette shaking between his teeth. Before he leaves, he grabs Yamamoto’s jacket, it’s navy and no doubt for sports, boasting white stripes on the collar and shoulders. He slips it on and folds up the homework, shoving it in the pocket.

It’s true that they live within a short walk of each other, and when Yamamoto leaves the house Gokudera is waiting out on the street for him. They walk together in silence for a few moments, Yamamoto’s eyes darting back and forth.

“Here, idiot.” Gokudera grumbles, holding out the folded paper to him.

Yamamoto takes it and stalls in his walking, causing his companion to stop too. “My…homework.” He laughs in relief, “Thanks, Gokudera.”

“Next time you just have to pay more attention.” Gokudera says without meeting his gaze, trying to play off all the little thing he’s trying to do to make it up to him as nothing.

“I’m paying,” Yamamoto starts, stepping within inches of the other boy. He grips the sides of the square, upturned collar of the coat Gokudera’s wearing, straightening them out. “A lot of attention.”

Gokudera has no choice but to look him in the eyes now, and Yamamoto kisses him on the deserted street. Yamamoto’s lips are hot and dry and persistent, and Gokudera worries the bottom one between his teeth, not as a threat but as a challenge.

It’s only a moment and they break away, faces hot against the brisk autumn morning.

“Looks good on you,” Yamamoto laughs, with Gokudera threatening loudly to leave it in the middle of the street.

.:. Five .:.

Somehow, despite his stubbornness to keep it under lock and key, Gokudera’s birthday has been found out. It’s September and he’s only known Tsuna and the others for a few months. He suspects it’s Reborn’s idea—to turn it into some kind of crazy game, but when the day actually arrives there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

Except a dinner party at Yamamoto’s restaurant, with the family invited. It’s obvious that they all like and care for him, since they planned it, which makes him happy beyond belief to actually have friends for once. Among the guests are Tsuna and his mother, Lambo, Yamamoto, Reborn, and his sister, who thankfully has decided she prefers not to cook tonight.

Someone has even pooled the money to rent a karaoke machine, and the night becomes very entertaining very quickly. No one but Bianchi really has talent singing, and Tsuna only does it when someone else offers to join, but quickly loosens up.

Dampering Gokudera’s mood as always is Lambo, who has successfully managed to spill an entire cup of soda down Gokudera’s front, and his shirt is soaked.

“You shit head!!!!” He shouts while trying to strangle the toddler, who is somewhere between laughing and crying at this point.

Soon after Yamamoto offers a change of shirt and Gokudera, reluctantly and with some harsh muttered words, follows him up the stairs at the back of the restaurant into the house. Having left the noise of the party behind, his house is quiet and dark and they navigate it with only the lights from the windows to guide them.

“Wait here.” Yamamoto instructs in the hallway, leaving him behind to go into his own room. After a minute he comes back into the dark passage with an olive green v-neck. “I’ll put your shirt in with the laundry.”

Gokudera agrees and strips himself of his own shirt, before replacing it with Yamamoto’s. The idiot is unnaturally silent, watching him with raised brows and a little smirk, an undetectable emotion.

“What?” Gokudera finally snarls, still holding onto his own soaked shirt.

Yamamoto hums a little in response, that makes Gokudera even more pissed, before pressing his hands to the sides of his face, kissing him for the first time. It’s chaste and shaky and he pulls away right away, but only a little, and Gokudera’s hot sigh tingles against his mouth. It’s Gokudera that presses their lips together again, a slow languid kiss that he directs even though Yamamoto was the one who made the move in the first place. Teeth and tongues and lips meet and Yamamoto’s fingers slide into Gokudera’s hair, his hot palms resting over cold ears.

A crash is heard downstairs and they pull away as quickly as they met, short of breath and both a bit surprised. Gokudera wordlessly shoves his shirt into Yamamoto’s hands, who replies with shaky laughter, “Right.”

They go back downstairs together in silence, and after the party Gokudera is the last to leave. He and Yamamoto stand in the street watching as the others walk home, both feeling like there’s something to be said, neither knowing what it is.

Instead Gokudera grabs Yamamoto by the collar of his shirt, yanking him down for a heated kiss, one last time, before breaking away and stepping back.

“Goodnight.” Is the only thing he has to say as he turns to walk home, calling over his shoulder while Yamamoto blinks back surprise, “Tell your dad I said thanks.”


End file.
